


Let Me Think About It

by extasiswings



Category: Check Please! (Webcomic)
Genre: 2018 Winter Olympics, Alternate Universe - Olympics, Figure Skater Eric "Bitty" Bittle, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-01-13
Updated: 2018-01-13
Packaged: 2019-03-04 03:06:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 3,463
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13355190
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/extasiswings/pseuds/extasiswings
Summary: Fourth. He finishes fourth and still wants to cry, but he could still make the team with fourth, it could happen, and he’s never wanted anything so badly in his life—He gets the text at 6:19AM after not sleeping at all.Congratulations, Eric. You’ve been named to the 2018 U.S. Olympic Men’s Figure Skating Team.[Or: Eric Bittle just wanted to go to the Olympics. But, he isn't going to say no to falling in love.]





	1. Chapter 1

_January 6, 2018  
U.S. Figure Skating National Championships_

“Eric Bittle has never needed a triple axel more than he needs this one right here—“

“And he popped it! Only a single, and after that triple loop he singled a moment ago as well…”

“Such a shame. His short program was so spectacular. To come into the free skate and give a performance like this…”

“Just disappointing, Johnny. I don’t know what to say beyond that.”

* * *

Eric half-skates, half-limps off the ice, his forced smile dropping the moment he’s out of view of the judges, although he knows the cameras are still trained on him. The entire left side of his body aches from the fall he’d taken landing his quad lutz.

_At least you didn’t dislocate your shoulder again_ , he thinks. It doesn’t make him feel better.

“Shake it off, little bird,” Katya murmurs, squeezing the back of his neck gently as they make their way to the Kiss & Cry.

(And Lord, does he want to listen to her. But he’s just royally fucked what he thought was a sure thing—at least what he’d really wanted to believe was a sure thing—and this is qualifying for the Olympics they’re talking about. The _Olympics_. It’s a miracle he managed not to burst into tears right there on the ice—)

His score flashes up.

Third. Two skaters left and he’s in third.

Eric bites the inside of his cheek hard, shrugs off Katya’s hand when the cameras move away from them, and goes off to cry in peace.

That should be the end of it. He’s almost positive it is as he eases himself down to the floor against the closest wall.

Except. It isn’t. 

Jason falls, then falls again, and the gasps are so loud Eric can hear them over the music. When his score only gets him to sixth, Eric has to put his head between his knees lest he be overcome by the rush of something like hope.

(He’s not proud of it because if nothing else, Jason is his friend and Eric isn’t cruel. But at the same time, he’s already been to the Olympics and this could be Eric’s only shot—)

Fourth. He finishes fourth and still wants to cry, but he could still make the team with fourth, it could happen, and he’s never wanted anything so badly in his life—

He gets the text at 6:19AM after not sleeping at all.

_Congratulations, Eric. You’ve been named to the 2018 U.S. Olympic Men’s Figure Skating Team._


	2. Chapter 2

Two days before the opening ceremonies, Eric’s not convinced he’ll make it through this without throwing up from nerves. Even worse, he knows everyone can see it. Katya gives him a look after his morning skate, but doesn’t say anything about the practice itself, just tells him to stretch and eat something and take it easy for the rest of the day.

(He doesn’t lie to her when he promises to do just that—he just doesn’t say when he’ll do those things. At least he waits until she leaves before getting back on the ice)

It’s blessedly quiet and clear—a luxury given that getting truly private ice time is a scheduling nightmare—and Eric marks his way through a step sequence in peace before biting his lip in consideration.

Just one quad. Landing one good one might help him get his confidence back.

Just one…

(Katya would kill him for trying it alone, but—)

He takes a deep breath and skates to center ice, mentally cueing up his free skate music. The quad is the first element…

He lands it—

—And then promptly falls on his ass during the first triple of the program seconds later.

Since there’s no one else around to judge him for it, Eric doesn’t bother getting up, just lays there and flings an arm over his face.

“Are you okay? That looked rough.”

_Oh. Not alone._

For some reason, it’s that more than anything that makes him burst out laughing.

(Concerned Bystander probably thinks he’s lost it. For that matter, Erice isn’t sure he hasn’t either, but laughing is better than crying or feeling sick to his stomach or thinking about all the people on the internet who think he doesn’t belong on the team, so he’ll take it)

“Um…”

“I’m fine,” Eric manages, waving a hand carelessly. “Just waiting for the ice to open up and swallow me before I have a chance to embarrass myself in front of the whole world. Again.”

The smooth scrape of blades on ice hits his ears moments before they skid to a stop next to him. 

_Not figure skates then…_

“Do you think that’ll happen soon?” Amusement filters into Concerned Bystander’s voice—which is really quite a nice voice now that Eric can hear it properly—as he adds, “It’s only that we have practice in a few minutes, so…”

“Oh, he’s got jokes. I see how it is,” Eric says, charmed despite himself. “That’s awfully rude, you know. Like you said, I just had a nasty fall.”

“Well you did say you were fine…”

A hand appears in his field of vision and Eric grips it hard as Concerned Bystander huffs a small laugh and tugs him up. There’s still a smile playing around the edges of his mouth when Eric finally gets a good look, and if he’d been kidding about the ice swallowing him up before he would really love if it could do him a solid now because apparently he’s been making a fool of himself in front of Jack Zimmermann. 

It takes every ounce of composure he has not to flush bright red. 

“I—” He coughs and clears his throat. “I did say that, yes. And I am. Fine. I fall a lot. Well, not a lot, a normal amount for a figure skater, but I mean I’m used to it anyway.”

He’s babbling. Oh, god. 

“Thank you though. For the concern. And the hand.”

Eric realizes abruptly that he still is, in fact, holding Jack’s hand.

“Eric,” he adds, before he can say or do anything else. “Eric Bittle, U.S. figure skater.”

“Jack,” Jack replies, turning their clasped hands into a handshake. “I play hockey.”

“I know,” Eric says, and then he does flush because he didn’t mean it in a _You were the first out NHL player and I spent a week trying not to have impure thoughts about your spread in the ESPN Body Issue after that_ kind of way, but he also didn’t _not_ mean it that way, and really anytime this ice wants to open up under him would be great. 

“I mean, your skates!” He corrects. “Hockey skates. And you said we have practice, so I assumed…”

That gets him another quiet laugh and Jack somehow isn’t looking at him like he’s just started doing the chicken dance, so he’ll take it.

“We do, yeah,” Jack acknowledges, and at the far side of the rink, the door opens. 

“Zimmermann! Are you going to get your pads on or what?” A voice calls.

“Be right there!” Jack shouts back before shooting Eric a sheepish glance. “I should—”

“Go,” Eric says, regretfully pulling his hand away and skating back. “Thanks again. It was real nice meeting you.”

Jack nods and starts to skate off, but stops halfway across the ice and looks back.

“Hey, Bittle?”

“Yeah?”

“For what it’s worth...the whole embarrassing yourself in front of the world thing...you aren’t the only one who feels that way.”

Jack’s off again before Eric can think of a single word to say in response to that, but it sticks with him as he takes off his skates and leaves the rink.

_Jack Zimmermann. Good Lord._

Maybe this whole thing won’t be so bad after all.


	3. Chapter 3

Eric doesn’t see Jack again that day. Or the next. Or the day of the opening ceremonies, at least up to the point he heads to the main dining facility for lunch, by which point he’s resigned himself to seeing Jack at the ceremonies and then never again for the rest of the Olympics. Which is...disappointing. 

(It’s weird—being disappointed about not seeing a hockey player. Not that he assumes all hockey players are raging asshats who are more likely to slam him into the side of a rink than be nice to him, but...okay, maybe he thinks that a little bit. There’s a reason he chose an individual sport where the main risk of injury is self-inflicted after all. But Jack _had_ been nice. And sympathetic. And funny. And he’s also stunningly gorgeous, which is besides the point, but Eric has eyes, sue him—)

_Get it together, Eric_ , he thinks to himself as he snags an empty table. _Repeat after me. I will stop thinking about Jack Zimmermann in 3...2...1…_

“So, I hear you met Jack.”

Eric jumps as Larissa Duan slides her tray onto the table next to him and sits down. The smirk on her lips is...concerning.

“Need to get you a bell, Lardo,” he replies, willing his pulse to return to normal. “And how did you even hear about that?”

She shrugs. “Team Canada is chatty. Besides, Jack’s a friend of mine. Been meaning to introduce you for ages.”

“ _What_?” How had he not known that? Granted, he only sees the speed skater a few times a year because their schedules don’t match up often, but still.

“That season I was out because of my knee? We met doing some summer camp thing for little kids. Kept in touch after. He’s a cool dude.”

“He...seemed like it,” Eric acknowledges, and she laughs. 

“Want to know what he said about you?”

He bites the inside of his cheek hard trying not to react, but his face gives him away. 

“ _Wow_ , Bits,” Lardo says, dragging out the first word as her smirk sharpens. “That’s a yes then?”

“It’s not a crush,” he replies. “I don’t have crushes on every out athlete, you know.”

“Just the ones who look like Jack,” she teases. “Tweeted at him lately?”

“Oh my god, that was _one_ time!” Eric protests. “He had just come out and people were being awful and I was miserable with a broken foot. I can’t be held responsible for my actions during that time.”

_Besides, it’s not like he ever responded_ , his brain helpfully reminds.

Lardo tips her head, accepting the point as she goes to take a sip of water. But of course, that’s not the end of it.

“He thinks you’re cute,” she says a minute later, and Eric nearly chokes.

“He did not say that.”

“Maybe not in so many words,” she agrees. “But he was very interested when I said I knew you. And when I said you were single.”

Eric puts his head in his hands and groans.

“Lord, you _didn’t_.”

Lardo grins. “At least I’m not the one who made Jack watch your short program from nationals. That was Shitty. But it did make his ears turn red.”

“We’re not friends,” Eric replies, shaking his head. Although, if he’s honest, he would love to hear more about this particular piece of information. “I’m firing you. You and Shitty both. Fired.”

“Blasphemy,” the man himself, B. Shitty Knight, says as he slides in against Eric’s other side. “You love us. But since I’m late, why are we fired?”

“Jack,” Lardo fills in. 

“What was it that one tumblr post said about your short program?” Shitty asks. “Eric Bittle just stole my man and I don’t even have one? It wasn’t lying. I’m just using it to get you one you’re actually interested in.”

“First of all, I’m still not convinced you weren’t the one who _made_ that tumblr post,” Eric replies. “And second—Lord have _mercy_ , who let _that woman_ in here?”

Andrea. From NBC. Aka, his nemesis. And she’s cornered none other than Jack himself, who is looking more and more uncomfortable by the second.

Eric sighs. “‘Scuse me, y’all. One sec.”

“Get it, Bits.”

He rolls his eyes as he walks over to the door, squaring up his shoulders as he approaches Jack. 

“Now, Mr. Zimmermann, you’ve been open about what it’s like being an out player in the NHL, but here on the international stage, how do you feel being the first gay captain of a national team at the Olympics?”

“Jack!” Eric interrupts, plastering a smile on even though he’s so mad at the question he could spit. And Jack, the poor thing, looks so grateful. “I thought that was you! So good to see you again!”

Some of the tightness in Jack’s jaw relaxes as he nods and manages a small smile of his own. “Bittle. Yeah, I was...hoping to catch up with you.”

“And Andrea,” Eric says, turning to face the older woman with as much Southern charm as he can muster. “Always a pleasure. You won’t mind if I steal him, will you? I just never get to see this boy.”

Andrea pulls a face like she’s bitten into a lemon, but forces a bright smile. “Eric! You know, we weren’t quite done—”

“Well, bless your heart,” he drawls. “I think you were though, seeing as reporters aren’t allowed in here. So you should probably go before someone calls security. Oh, and since I know how important accuracy is to you, I’m gay. Jack’s bi. There’s a difference. And gosh, I’d just hate for you to write up something with a mistake like that in it. That’d be embarrassing, huh?”

He can practically hear her teeth grinding as they stare one another down, her smile twisting. 

“Of course,” she says finally. “How silly of me. My...apologies, Mr. Zimmermann. I’ll catch you another time.”

“Bye, now!” Eric calls after her as she turns and walks away. 

“Don’t let the door hit you on the way out,” he adds under his breath, dropping his fake smile now that she’s gone. At his side, Jack is quiet.

“You okay?” Eric asks. “She’s the worst.”

To his surprise, Jack laughs. 

“You’re...kind of terrifying, you know that?” Jack says, and it’s warm and a little baffled and absolutely the kind of tone Eric wouldn’t mind hearing more of. “If you ever get tired of skating, I bet George would love to have you work for Falconers PR.”

Eric waves it off, but offers Jack a much more genuine smile than he’d had on earlier. 

“Andrea and I go way back,” he replies. “She was one of the first people to write about me after I came out—one of those articles about how _brave_ I was, but could I handle the pressure, was I even that good of a skater for it to matter, etcetera. And she also somehow always manages to ask the worst possible questions in the most uncomfortable ways at the worst times.”

“So, you would have done that for anyone then, eh?” Jack asks, and it’s an opening, it’s such an opening, but Eric can’t tell if he means it to be one or if it’s pure coincidence—

“I mean—” Jack adds after a too-long moment, his hand coming up to rub at the back of his neck.

_Oh._

“No,” Eric interrupts, meeting Jack’s eyes. “Not just _anyone_.”

_You though, definitely._

That gets him a very different smile—soft and pleased and ever-so-slightly flirty—and Eric’s heart turns over.

_Oh Lord, this boy._

“I was sitting with Lardo—Larissa—and Knight, the snowboarder, if you...maybe wanted to join us?” He offers quietly. “I’m sure they wouldn’t mind.”

“I’d like that,” Jack agrees, just as quietly.

_This. Boy._


	4. Interlude: Jack

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jack didn't plan for Eric Bittle. It's incredibly inconvenient.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Heads up for allusions to Jack's overdose, although nothing explicit.

Jack Zimmermann has always wanted to play hockey. As far back as he can remember, he’s been at home on the ice, as comfortable on skates as he is in tennis shoes.

It’s everything _outside_ that’s gotten in the way of that. The expectations. The pressure—not enough to be good, have to be _better_ , always better, because you don’t get to be fallible and human when you’re the son of a superstar, you have to be _exceptional_ —

Even almost ten years later, he doesn’t always know how to talk about what happened before the draft. He doesn’t know how to explain that he wasn’t trying to do anything but loosen the vise around his ribcage making it impossible to breathe, quiet the not-so-little voice shouting that he was going to fail, that he shouldn’t try to pretend otherwise—

(He woke up after to the beeping of a heart monitor and his mother gripping his hand more tightly than she ever had before, and when he’d croaked out a soft _Maman_ she’d started crying)

Jack’s grateful for Samwell to an extent he never expected. He needed the chance to get his head on straight, to be just Jack and not _Jack Zimmermann_ , to figure out out how to love hockey again without drowning in anxiety. Without Samwell, he wouldn’t have found the Falconers, wouldn’t have two Stanley Cups under his belt, and definitely wouldn’t have even considered coming out.

But he had.

He does.

He did. 

He made it.

And now, he’s at the Olympics, because screw the NHL for saying they weren’t going to participate, his country asked him to captain its team and he wasn’t going to say no.

(If George had needed to reassure him the Falconers would support whatever decision he made to keep him from agonizing over it, well, that’s between the two of them)  
As the Games grew closer, Jack planned for anxiety, for stress over whether he’s qualified for the job he’s been asked to do and the nonsense questions he knows the media will have for him.

He didn’t plan for Eric Bittle.

(He almost wants to be annoyed with himself because he does _not_ need distractions, especially not in the form of small, southern, blond figure skaters, but…  
But Bittle had crashed to the ice in front of him and then talked about making a fool of himself on the world stage, a fear Jack is intimately familiar with, and somehow he hasn’t been able to stop thinking about him)

It’s incredibly inconvenient.

“He’s kind of a badass, you know,” Ransom says, after prying the source of Jack’s preoccupation out of him the day after he meets Bittle. 

“Oh?” 

“Ch’yeah, dude,” Ransom replies, leaning back against the wall of their shared room. “I heard earlier in the season he dislocated his shoulder right off the bat in a routine—didn’t even stop, just popped it back in himself and finished the program to win silver. No one even knew until he was asked about it afterwards. Badass.”

Which...that is not at all information Jack needed, because he already knows Bittle is talented—if he’s watched a few videos, he can hardly be blamed for wanting to know more about the stranger he’d met. But talented _and_ dedicated?

Ransom laughs and reaches for his phone. “Oh my god, your face. I’m telling Holster about this, it’s too good not to—”

Jack throws a pillow at him. 

“When’s he getting here anyway?” He asks, trying desperately to change the subject. He can’t deny that it’s nice to have a chance to play with one of his former teammates again, but it does make Ransom the one person on the team who knows him well enough to chirp him until the end of time.

“The day before our first game, but that’s not the point. The _point_ is that you, Jack Zimmermann, oh Captain, my Captain...have a crush.”

Jack pinches the bridge of his nose and sighs. 

“If I admit it, can we stop talking about it so I can sleep?”

The other side of the room goes abruptly silent. When Jack looks over, Ransom is staring at him.

“Rans? Justin?”

“Okay, for the record, that was like seventy-five percent chirping for the sake of chirping,” the other man says. “And because he seems like he would be your type—not that I would know that much about that since you never date—but seriously? You actually like him?”

And there’s an out in that, because if Jack lied and said no, Ransom would probably let it go. But...it _would_ be a lie.

(It doesn’t make sense because they’ve only exchanged a handful of words, but Bittle— _Eric_ —is breathtaking on the ice—fluid and graceful and powerful—and Jack knows next to nothing about figure skating, but he knows Eric is damn good at it, and yes, it’s attractive. He’s attractive. And Jack wants to talk to him again and oh, hell, he does have a crush)

“Yeah,” Jack admits. “I think I really do.”

_So very inconvenient._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am aware the NHL said it wasn't going to participate in the Olympics, but since there were several non-American players who made statements to the effect that they would participate if asked to represent their countries, I decided that Jack would go anyway. Especially because in this universe, the Falconers have won the Stanley Cup the past two years and can handle being without him for a few weeks. Also in this universe, Ransom and Holster still played with Jack at Samwell and Ransom plays in the AHL, where at least a couple members of the Canadian Men's Olympic Team are from.

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted on tumblr as "I said I wasn't going to write a figure skating au." Brought about entirely by Adam Rippon's performance at the 2018 National Championships and his general everything because my response to watching his short program was "Would Bitty Do That? Hell Yes." Title comes from AR's short program music because Reasons.


End file.
